


Material Witness—Shine a Light [Set during Knockout 3 x 24 and Rise 4 x 1]

by Polly_Lynn



Series: Material Witness [4]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A night light. Boxy red with a single tulip-shaped bulb. It's the only one and he almost misses it. The woman waves it aside. <em>It was an experiment,</em> she says.</p><p>He wants it badly, but she's reluctant. She says it's cheating. Just passing on light like that is cheating. <em>Borrowing,</em> he tells her sharply. He's embarrassed then, but he can't help repeating it: It's borrowing, not cheating.</p><p>She won't sell it to him, but she lets him take it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Material Witness—Shine a Light [Set during Knockout 3 x 24 and Rise 4 x 1]

**Author's Note:**

> Third in a series of loosely linked one-shots that can be read independently and in any order you like.  
> I knew there'd be a night light. I didn't know it would play out this way.

  


* * *

_2013_

  


"It's the light." Kate's voice breaks the long silence.

Castle's eyes drift shut on a silent thank you.

Silence. It's his worst event by far, but it's what she seems to need most right now. What she thinks she needs. For now, that's what matters. When the time comes he'll argue with her. About rest and food and her own life. Their life, if he has to play dirty. But it's not here yet.

He brushes his hand through her hair. She arches her neck and presses closer to him. Lets him work his fingers down inside the collar of the shirt she's been wearing for at least two days.

His chest swells with it. Warmth and worry. She must be exhausted to lean on him like this. To let him comfort her here. Half a dozen knots of private grief scattered like islands, their own just one of them. But she lets him.

She lets him and he risks breaking the silence. Pulling her back toward him with words. "Light?"

"It's the worst thing. The worst thing about hospitals." Her head tips heavily against her own palm. Away from him, but not far. She's not just letting him. She's asking him and he answers. Slides his arm around her and presses his forehead to her cheek.

Castle catches a glimpse of them in a mirror across the room and he wonders why. Why a mirror. Why here? They look awful. Everyone looks awful.

"My mother would agree with you. I am _completely_ washed out," he murmurs as he nudges her head in the direction of the mirror.

It gets a short laugh from her and a double take. She sees it, too, how awful they both look. It's more than just the light. She see it and files it away for now. It's not much, but he's grateful enough for it.

* * *

_2011_

He walks that day. It's stalling, plain and simple, though he tells himself that he's just enjoying the May morning. He is. He does enjoy it, whether that's why he's walking today or not.

He loves the way the city unfolds this time of year. The way everything stretches, tall and determined. The way the light of late spring lifts all of it up—everything up—and makes life seem possible.

It's early. Too early for the stalls that will clog the sidewalks and park paths a month from now. Two weeks from now. He keeps forgetting that it's closer to summer than he's had time to realize. The sun doesn't feel warm yet. It rises early and sets late, but he's still waiting for it to feel warm.

It's early but there are already a couple of go-getters out and about with their wares. Pedaling and pushing and pulling their carts and wagons and wheelbarrows, all of them loaded up with thick, brightly colored fabric. He stands by and watches a few of them set up. He loves the potential. The promise. Nondescript heaps of nothing emerging, fold by fold, into something. Into beauty.

He browses as he goes, but it makes him restless before too long. He doesn't know all the vendors by any means. They come and go all summer long, following the rhythms of fairs and festivals, openings and re-openings.

And even his well-worn paths are mostly a blur of suggestions. A loose collection of nudges carrying him this way and that. He's always taking a different turn. Crossing here instead of there. Letting himself be caught up in the ebb and flow of traffic in search of new sights and sounds.

But it all gets old after a while. It already feels old today. He's caught between restlessness and reluctance.

He wants to see her. He always wants to and it's sharpest in the morning. But this isn't just any morning.

He needs an opening line. He always needs an opening line. Even if he lets it go eventually. Even if he discards it once the next line comes and the next line, he needs that point of entry and he doesn't have it.

He's only half convinced this conversation is his to have. That he should be the one on the other side of it. That it's his place, whatever her father thinks.

He wants it to be. For his own sake, he wants it to mean something that it's _his_ door Jim Beckett knocked on out of the blue. _His._ For his own sake, he wants badly for it to be his place and no one else's.

For her sake, he'd share. For her sake, he wants company there. He wants more than this fragile something between them to anchor her to this life.

It's the world to him. Whether or not he turns to face the ache that tells him that, it's the world to him. He doesn't know what it is to her. He only knows that it can't be all. It's not enough to save her and it can't be the only thing that keeps her here. If it is, he's lost her already. He never had her.

Restlessness wins out. Opening line or not, he wants to see her. He moves on. Lingers less at each stall. Even when the vendors are friendly, he'll just nod and move on. He can't find anything new to say about the same old things.

He puts his head down. He's turning his back on the park when something catches his eye. Color. Incredible color drinking in the sun and giving back more. _More._ He drifts toward the cart and nods to the shy young woman.

He's never seen anything like it. Like any of it. Even the familiar things are new somehow. On the outside—the first thing that catches his eye—it's just the usual sun catchers. Curves and right angles dangling from ornament hooks. Lead lines hemming in geometric expanses of color. But the shades are intense. Alive. They move and breathe and give back more than they take in.

He steps deeper into the stall and wonders why she's hiding these other things. Tall twists of light, dipping low and rising again. Even here—deep in shadow and far from the morning sun—they glow with a light and heat all their own.

He asks about them and the woman answers. Timid at first. Eager as she goes on. No one wants these things inside, she tells him. They're not familiar. There's nothing obvious to do with them. They won't hold flowers or wait for the afternoon light to come to them. Sculptures of a kind, she guesses, but not really. But she sees them in her mind and her hands bring their light into the world.

He nods and turns with her. Touches his finger to one figurine, then another. No one wants those, either, she tells him with a laugh. He can see why. The colors are muted and their hollow features lean toward the grotesque. They're beautiful, too, but it's the kind beauty that takes time to see. The kind that creeps up and catches you sideways with a sad story.

He's about to go. He's not surprised to find that he's already chosen a few things. He knew he wouldn't leave empty handed, but he almost misses it. A night light. Boxy red with a single tulip-shaped bulb. It's the only one and he almost misses it. The woman waves it aside. It was an experiment, she says.

She likes the character—a fire engine red robot with sad silver eyes—she points out his cousins in the neat rows of figurines, a hint of his own squared-off face in the corner of an abstract design. He wants it badly, but she's reluctant. She says it's cheating. Just passing on light like that is cheating.

Borrowing, he tells her sharply. He's embarrassed then, but he can't help repeating it: It's borrowing, not cheating.

She won't sell it to him, but she lets him take it.

* * *

_2013_

There's not much that's good about this having happened up here. In the city, there'd be experts and equipment and the illusion of control. In the city, someone might have found him sooner. Only might have, because that's not really how Jim Beckett lives his life.

Kate thanks him—thanks Castle—for how quickly the neighbor _did_ find him. He's not a friend, but he's an acquaintance now, and he wouldn't have been even that if Castle weren't so pathologically friendly. Her father's had the cabin for years, but he packs and unpacks his life inside it. Takes it with him when he goes.

Castle blushes and burns under her thanks. He's grateful for the coincidence. Grateful that he can do _something_ here, however unintentional. But it comes out of the unpleasant truth that they don't really get along, he and her father.

They're not on bad terms, but for two men who love Kate with such intensity, they don't have a lot to talk about. So he endures—they both endure—the occasional outings and the family weekends away. And they both make the best of it.

For Castle that means nosing around the small town. Getting to know people. Asking impertinent questions and counting on his charm to help him backpedal when he needs to. The neighbor had dropped by on the off chance Jim might know something about the new book and found him lying half out the front door.

There don't seem to be many trade-offs for this happening here. No small-town bedside manner or grandmotherly nurses anticipating their needs. It's cold and sterile and uncomfortable, just like any hospital. And she's right—the light is awful. The light is the worst.

The cardiac surgeon's frank conversation with Kate borders on brutal. Castle bristles when he says flat out that the prognosis is significantly worse given Jim's drinking, but Kate doesn't flinch. She lays a quiet hand on Castle's arm and asks questions. Lets him know in a few sharp words that she won't be talked down to.

The surgeon turns to go and Castle waits for her to fall apart. He's ready for it. Quiet and willing to follow her lead, but she surprises him. Like always, she surprises him.

She meets his eyes and there's annoyance there. Not grief. Not fear. Not much anyway. And six months ago he thinks he probably wouldn't have seen what little there is. She meets his eyes, tosses her head toward the surgeon's departing back and murmurs, "What a dick."

* * *

_2011_

He leaves it in her desk. Tissue paper and bubble wrap in a brown paper bag and he tucks it into her top right-hand drawer. It's not an oversight. It's not something he forgot, though he tells himself it is.

He leaves it on purpose and goes into the conversation unarmed. Without an opening line. He still doesn't know if it's his place. They think it is—her father and now Montgomery—and the narrative pulls him this way and that. Father figures and their seal of approval. It's compelling, but he won't leave their lives to the whim of a story. He still doesn't know if it's his place.

He wants it to be, and it's that truth clamoring loud in his ears that sends him her way. Without some plot device. Without some glib opening line or second-hand plea. He wants it be his place alone and he goes to ask her, empty handed.

It's no surprise when she sees through it right away. The excuse to show up on her doorstep. She sees through it and attacks.

There's a single moment when things could have been different. Might have been different. A single moment, but he panics. The words are past his lips— _the people that love you—_ and it's like sheet lightning under his skin. It shocks every cell. He panics and says other men's names and it's over then.

Oh, it goes on. It goes painfully on, but it's over in that moment.

_What about you, Rick?_

That shocks him, too, but he's dull to it and all the possibilities are ashes now. All it can call up is anger in kind. It's out there in the open, laying them both bare, but it's over. It's already over.

She sets them up and knocks them down.

* * *

_2013_

They all think she should leave. Their friends. His family. Her family now, too, though it's not always easy or obvious. It's no less true for that. It's no less true that Jim is his family, whether or not they get along. God knows family isn't always about having something to say to one another.

They all think she should leave, and they want him to make her. They say he's the only one who can, and they might be right. They might be right, but he won't do it.

They all say sensible things. That Jim will need her more later. That there's nothing she can do now. That she has to take care of herself. Keep up her strength and be ready for when he's well enough to come home. If he's ever well enough.

The _if_ carries a lot of weight, but it's not why Castle stands guard over her. It's not why he weathers their well-meaning advice. Their insistence. It's not why he shields her from everything except well wishes and assurances that they're all keeping the home fires burning. It's not why he won't make her leave.

He won't make her leave because it makes a difference to her. Because the end will come suddenly if it comes. But it won't come with a silent drive that goes on and on and ends in a good-bye that happened without her. Not if he can help it.

He won't make her leave because she is practical and ruthless with herself in every other way. In every single minute of her life. He won't make her leave because there's a spark of little girl inside her who thinks that her staying _can_ make a difference. Because why things matter and the difference they make can't always be measured.

He won't make her leave because he wouldn't.

But the fact of the matter is Jim is not doing well. Castle supposes he ought to be grateful to the surgeon that they weren't blind-sided by that. Staying might mean throwing in for the long haul. He won't make her leave, but he has to make plans.

He broaches the subject carefully. Waits for her to break the silence and shows her that she needs things. Shows her that he can make arrangements. Have things sent along and taken care of. She nods and he's relieved. She makes a list out loud. Practical, sensible things for her. Scattered things, foolish things that she just wants. That she just wants her dad to have. She asks him to go.

She asks him to go and he freezes. It hurts. It hurts more than he thinks it should after all this time. She sees it and she's sorry and he's sorry, but they fix it. They fix it in a minute because she winds herself around him and tells him what she's really asking.

"Please, Castle. Go. Go so you can come back."

He points himself at the city.

* * *

_2011_

He doesn't forget about it. It's on his mind through everything. He's afraid the whole time and he would borrow light if he could. She must be afraid, too. She has to be so afraid, and he wishes he'd been brave enough to give it to her. Light to borrow. However silly it is, however absurd, he wishes he'd been brave enough in that single moment.

He doesn't forget about it, but somehow it's a surprise—a shock—the first time he finds it again. He's still hopeful then. It hasn't been that long and he's still hopeful.

He sits at her desk tugging open drawer after drawer. He's looking for a pen because he has something. He thinks he has something and he makes a mental note to buy her pens that don't completely suck. To buy the whole precinct pens that don't completely suck. The top right drawer sticks and he has to shove his hand in to press down whatever is holding things up.

He feels the give of bubble rap under the rasp of plain brown paper and jerks his hand back. He's still hopeful then, but something makes him take it home. Something makes him slip it into his messenger bag and give it safe passage.

It's midsummer when he breaks it. There's nothing in particular. Oh, there's probably the storytelling angle. Dates of significance that hang heavier than others, but it's nothing really. Nothing but the weight of thirty-four days and the last of his hope draining out of him in a rush. There's no particular thing that ends it, it's just over.

It takes time. It's not the work of a moment to unwrap. To unearth and extract it from its safe haven. It takes time and it's deliberate—a gesture, however pointless—when he dashes it against the brick of his office.

There's no one to hear it this time. They're gone—his mother, Alexis. Her, obviously. They're gone and he's alone. He sits there on the floor with the pieces in his hands for a long time. A long time.

* * *

_2013_

He calls ahead. It's a long drive and he sets things in motion and just hopes it's possible. His mother doesn't balk for once. She doesn't _Oh, Richard_ , him. She finds the pieces in his desk and boxes them up.

It's Alexis who finds the woman. She walks the park all day and texts him a picture when she finally finds the cart. It's as beautiful. The light is different—it's a different time of year—but it's as beautiful as he remembers and he hopes.

She'll make another one, she says, but he doesn't _want_ another one. He loses it a little on Alexis. She lets him. Just gives him a quiet _Ok, Dad_ and the next thing he hears from her is that it's happening. She'll fix it.

He makes the rounds. Her place and he's proud and happy that there's so little she needs from there. A book or two and some photographs. Things her dad gave her to fill the space when she moved in and had nothing. Literally nothing.

But the stuff of her daily life—the things that are essential—are at his place. Their place. He packs them up. Adds some things she wouldn't think to ask for. Things she'll like having. Her pillow. An old t-shirt of his that she slips into when she's sick.

He tells Lanie straight out that he won't make her leave. That's not why he's here. To her credit, Lanie limits herself to one hard look and then she's helping him figure it out. Suggesting things he'd never think of because he doesn't have her perspective. Her inside knowledge on how hospitals work and don't work. And a new set of things are in motion before he's on his way.

Everything takes longer than he thought it would and he's anxious to head out of the city. He only means to stop and pick it up from Alexis, but he sees her pale face and calls Kate before she sees him.

"Of course," she says. "Of course."

He tells her he'll still be there before morning. She tries to talk him into spending the night, but it's half-hearted. He says he'll be there before morning and she says ok.

He has dinner with Alexis. It was supposed to make her feel better, but that's not how it works out. She's smart—of course she is. That's not it. She's _knowledgeable_. She's learned a lot working with Lanie. In her classes. She knows things and she teaches them to him. Helps him see the whole situation, the things that have been half in shadow the whole time for both of them.

"You think I should make her leave. You think we should come home." It's the last thing he says to her. Almost the last thing.

She looks at him. She doesn't smile and then she does. "I think you'll bring her home when it's time. You'll bring them both home."

* * *

_2013_

He pulls over when he gets the text. He's more than half way there, but it's late and he has a sudden fear that it's something awful. That it's the end and she's alone.

_What did you do, Castle?_

He drops his head back against the seat and the breath rushes out of him. He's grateful. Suspects Lanie must have pulled strings he didn't know she had to pull. He didn't think it would happen tonight, but he's grateful.

He calls her.

"I pulled over," he says before she can read him the riot act.

She's quiet a minute. _"How far?"_

 _Too far_. It's what he wants to say because there's so much in the space of those two words on her tongue. _Too far._ But he looks at the GPS. "Another hour or so?"

" _Good,"_ she says and then. _"No news. Everything's the same."_

"Good. That's good." He's grateful she didn't make him ask. "Is it ok—the room?"

" _Yes,"_ she breathes and there's genuine relief there. _"I was . . . surprised. Small. And nothing here is quiet. But it's nice to have a door to close."_

"Good," he says quietly. "I'm gonna go, Kate. Be there soon."

" _Go,"_ she repeats. _"Go so you can come back."_

* * *

_2013_

He keeps his promise. Just barely. The sun rises early this far north, but he beats it. He finds the room and slips inside as quietly as he can.

She wasn't kidding about it being small. He could probably touch both walls if he stood dead center. But there's a real bed—bunk beds, actually—and a small bathroom. A rickety desk in the corner with a lamp she's left burning.

She's asleep in the bottom bunk. It's not deep. Her breath tells him that, but her eyes are moving under paper-thin lids and the circles underneath might be a little lighter. He crouches by the bedside a minute and watches her, thankful for even this much.

He unlaces his shoes and pulls them off. Sets them aside with careful, silent hands. He shucks his pants and shirt just as carefully and folds them on the desk. He lays a hand on the box and wonders if he should leave it for later. But he wants it there. He wants her to have it tonight, whether it makes a difference or not.

He lifts the lid on the box. He's a little the worse for wear. A lot worse, actually. A stark, unforgiving line where his chest broke along the hard diagonal. A web of veins on one side of his head. That side might be more epoxy than stained glass now. But the woman has done a lovely, careful job putting him back together and he burns bright. Even in the dim light, there's that flare of living color that drew his eye that first day. Castle can't wait to see him lit up.

There's an outlet in just the right place, exactly opposite the bed. He bends down and slides the prongs into the socket. He stretches back toward the desk and pulls the chain on the lamp there. The dark is startling, how complete it is. It's been days and it's restful and absolute.

He leans down again and flicks the switch. He's thrilled at the light that fans up from it. Up and out. Just the right amount splayed along the wall. He's thrilled and has an absurd urge to wake her. To share it with her right now, but it passes. His own exhaustion is too much. He can only imagine hers.

There'll be time enough tomorrow. Later today. Moments won't be so hard to come by now that they have some place to be. Small and cramped as it is, it's good to have someplace that's theirs for the time being.

He stands next to the beds wondering where he'll find the strength to climb up to the top bunk.

"Castle, if you don't climb in this bed right now I will bite your kneecap."

He sinks a hip to the bottom bunk and presses his lips to her forehead. "Sorry. Didn't want to wake you. I'll . . . you'll have more . . ."

But she glares at him and raises an imperious arm, taking the blanket with it. He climbs under and she glares at him again.

"Wall side," she says shortly. "I always get the outside."

"Good to know," he says and lifts her over him easily. They struggle a bit, laughing a little and sniping until she's stretched out along him, her back to his front. They're quiet. He strokes her arm, her side, her hip. Gentle. Methodical.

She lets go. Her breathing follows his fingers and he thinks she's dropped off at last when she asks. "Tell me about him."

"Tomorrow, Kate. You should sleep," he whispers.

She just repeats it, though. "Tell me about him."

He's about to. He's thinking how to start when she turns her head quickly toward him. "Castle, I'm sorry. You've been . . . all day . . . I'm sorry. You're exhausted."

He kisses her lips once. Limits himself to that because there's trouble in more, tired as they both are. "Never too tired to tell you a story, Kate."

She narrows her eyes at him. She's worried, but she wants it too badly. She wants the comfort and he wants to tell her how much it means that she wants it from him. But that's something that will keep. He nudges her face back toward the nightlight with his own nose.

"It's not just my story," he begins quietly. "Your dad makes an appearance."

She tenses a little, but he presses a palm to her ribs and quiets her.

"Oooh, actually. This will probably make you mad," he doesn't bother to hide his grin.

"At my dad?" she asks. She's surprised, curious. He has her already and he knows it. "Good. I want to be mad at him."

"You want to be mad at him?" He hates derailing a story once he gets started, but he wants to know more than he wants to go on.

She doesn't say anything for so long, he wonders if she will. He's just about to go on when she answers at last. "He can't die if I still have things to yell at him for."

It's tight. Miserable. He thinks she meant it as a joke, but she fell short. He decides he can carry her the rest of the way. "Hmmm . . . I'll make this good, then."

She huffs out a laugh and fits herself closer against him. "You'd better."

"Once upon a time, there was a brave little girl. She was so brave she stared down the darkness, even though she was afraid, and never even asked for a night light . . ."

  



End file.
